A Scandal at the Ministry
by thequeergiraffe
Summary: Set after The Six Anglias. Or The Great Quidditch Game, if you prefer. Irene Adler has stolen some very important memories, and Sherlock has been sent to fetch them back. But is he in over his head this time? Rated for smut, of which there will be...a bit. I think it'll probably show up in two different chapters. Maybe three. Yep.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: For my next trick, I'm going to be writing in Sherlock's POV. This should be fun, haha. If you don't like it, don't worry: we'll be jumping back to John's POV in the next fic.**

Sherlock Holmes was standing over a dead body, a touch of a smile playing at his lips. "Oh," he breathed, stooping down beside the body in a crouch, "this _is _interesting."

"It's not a peep show, Freak," Auror Donovan sneered. She was especially moody, though Sherlock was sure he knew why (Anderson's suspicious wife, he suspected) and didn't care. He looked at the crack in the boy's skull before him and bit his lip. Donovan, disgusted, groaned. "Lestrade!"

"Sherlock?" Head Auror Lestrade, swooping in like a protective parent, knelt down beside Sherlock, cringing a little at the sight of the dead boy on the ground. "Got anything we can work with?"

It was best to ignore Lestrade, or so Sherlock usually felt. This instance was certainly no different. Sherlock leaned in, examining the dead boy's head wound more closely. "Fascinating."

John Watson crouched down on the other side of him, giving way to a momentary distraction. He smelled like _warmth_ (which Sherlock knew to be both ridiculous and true), with his jumper fresh from the wash and the scent of tea clinging to the wool. His sleeves were pushed up- it was too warm outdoors for a jumper, still- and his hands were rubbing absently at his corduroy-clad knees. Sherlock stole a glance at him, at his expressive pink face and his neatly-combed hair, and felt his mouth go dry.

Sighing, John met Sherlock's gaze. "Murder?"

For half a heartbeat the word didn't make sense...and then Sherlock's eyes snapped back to the body and the haze cleared. "No," he replied, smiling. He liked drawing his deductions out. Sometimes it was just to show off, but sometimes it was for the little thrill he got whenever John figured something out himself.

John's eyebrows raised. "Not...suicide?"

"Nope."

"Then..." John shook his head, baffled.

Sherlock let the question dangle for a moment before standing and saying, with careful deliberation, "Quidditch accident." _Imbeciles_, he thought uncharitably. They were at still looking at him stupidly. _Not a single one of them can see it. _"He was struck with a Bludger, clearly."

"Clearly," Anderson agreed sarcastically as he documented the body. Sherlock ignored him, too.

Lestrade's jaw worked for a moment. "There's one major problem I'm seeing with this theory," he said, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes. "He wasn't playing Quidditch."

"Merlin's pants, what must it be like in your funny little heads? Peaceful, I suspect." Sherlock brushed his fringe from his eyes and sighed. "What did the boy say? _Think_." He closed his eyes and in instant reviewed the testimony of the only quasi-witness to this death, the dead boy's brother. In Sherlock's mind's eye the boy licked his lips, blinked away tears, and admitted brokenly, "I didn't even know Michael was outside. I-I was playing Exploding Snap when I heard it...there was a sort of...of thump and then Michael cried out...By the time I got to him, he was...he was already gone."

Sherlock opened his eyes and gave John and Lestrade the sort of look he usually reserved for the mouth-breathing cretins at school. They still hadn't got it. Astounding. "Exploding Snap," he said, practically feeding them the answer...but he was rewarded with only blank looks and a huff of impatience from Lestrade's resident idiot Anderson. Rubbing his temples, Sherlock hurried, "Thomas was playing Exploding Snap in the front garden. Michael went out the side door to the shed- you can see his footprints. _Something_ hit the shed door...see the impact mark? So Michael runs after it. What was he chasing? An escaped Bludger, improperly replaced in the boys' Quidditch kit and freed when Michael opened the door. You-" he pointed at one of the mindless, nameless Aurors Lestrade had dragged along- "check the kit. You'll see I'm right. So, Michael's running through this field. He's hunting the Bludger when- bang! Thomas sets off a small explosion. Michael turns towards the noise; the Bludger slams into his skull; he dies." Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock looked around at the horizon. "Although one does have to wonder where it is _now_."

If Sherlock believed in God, he might have laughed at His timing. At that exact moment a whirring sound appeared at Sherlock's left and the missing Bludger hurtled out of the small ash grove nearby, zig-zagging through the air at an alarming rate. Two of Lestrade's Aurors shrieked, Donovan cursed loudly, and John immediately pushed Sherlock to the ground.

"Get off me!" Sherlock cried, wriggling beneath John. The Gryffindor was surprisingly heavy, small but compact...and he was doing his best to blanket Sherlock entirely.

John gasped and groped and grunted as he tried to keep Sherlock from getting up. "Stop wriggling," he said from behind clenched teeth, his face red with effort. "I'm trying to save your life!"

x

There was a sort of grim satisfaction to be had in sitting in Mycroft's office at the Ministry covered in mud, sweat, blood, and bits of grass. John, judging by his crossed arms and cross face, apparently did not agree.

Mycroft gave a tiny, fleeting glance towards his sofa (filling Sherlock with wicked glee) before sighing and giving his tea another stir. "Interesting morning, Sherlock?" he asked, taking a measured sip.

"You didn't bring me here for small talk." Sherlock sat forward, putting his scraped hands on his filthy knees. "What do you want?"

Infuriatingly, Mycroft- instead of answering quickly and concisely, as Sherlock would have preferred- sighed again and looked to John.

"We've been chasing a Bludger," John said after a greedy drink from his own teacup. "Well, more being chased by one, really."

"Ah." Smiling a tiny, smug smile, Mycroft said, "Good of you to take time out of your busy schedule, then."

That was enough of that. Sherlock set his teacup down with a clang and stood, straightening his soiled clothes as best as he could. "You've wasted enough our time. I'll just see myself out, shall I?"

"Sit down," Mycroft demanded, looking put out, as John sighed, "Oh, Sherlock, he's just taking the piss."

Sullenly, Sherlock settled just on the edge of the sofa, not looking at either of them. It was just like John to side with that wretched wraith Mycroft, and if either of them thought he didn't know about their ridiculous Jungle Book code names (or the fact that Mycroft fancied himself something of a Shere Khan) they were fooling themselves. He drummed out an impatient beat on the armrest and wriggled his foot for good measure.

"I should have thought you'd be pleased, Sherlock," Mycroft sniffed. "Obviously I've not brought you in for a social visit."

A case. Brilliant. Sherlock had expected as much but he had long since learned that when Mycroft was involved, things were not necessarily going to go as he'd initially presumed. He tried not to give anything away with his body language- and certainly the average person would never have noticed the difference- but the small quirk of smile tugging at Mycroft's lips told him that his dear brother knew he was secretly thrilled. That little smile did it; he gave up all semblance of pretense and sat forward, his eyes eager. "Tell me."

"You're going to play retriever." Fiddling with a file, Mycroft continued, "Irene Adler, seventeen years of age, attending Hogwarts. Slytherin, capable student but rather delinquent. I would suggest you might have met her, Sherlock, but it's clear you both...run in different circles."

Not-so-subtle jab at sexuality, or some other implication? Sherlock considered that as John bumbled on obliviously: "And she's...what? Gone missing?"

Mycroft laughed obnoxiously. "Heavens, no. She's stolen something from a colleague of mine. You two are going to get it back."

"Must be important," Sherlock said slowly, examining his fingernails. "You don't typically encourage my taking cases during the school year."

Glaring, Mycroft passed him the file. "Consider this an exemption to the rule."

_Oh_ was Sherlock's first thought as he opened the file. Irene was a classic beauty, with big sea-green eyes and red-painted lips. The photo at the top of the pile was of her on holiday, he presumed, and she was leaning over the railing of a boat, waving and laughing, her chestnut hair loose and dancing in a shifting breeze. The next photo was dark; Irene was dancing in a nightclub, her hips grinding into the lap of a man whose face was in shadows...but her eyes were on the photographer, locking the camera's gaze. All of the photos in the file were of a more intimate nature than Sherlock had expected, in fact- Irene in a dressing gown, slumped stomach-down on a motel bed and looking over her shoulder; Irene astride a pretty painted pony in what looked like the Midwest of America, grinning at the camera and brushing her hair from her eyes; Irene in a ball gown, her curls pinned, applying her lipstick in a compact and looking at the photographer in the mirror, a secretive smile curling her lips- and Sherlock tucked that little detail away for later. He passed the file to John, who tried very hard not to look appreciative as he flipped through the photos.

"What has she taken?" Sherlock asked, leaning back and crossing his legs.

Mycroft smiled, the warmth of it not quite reaching his eyes. "A collection of memories. The owner and the content of these memories are not important to the case. Find the memories, retrieve them, and return them to me."

"Mm." A colleague. Certainly not Daddy, not with Irene looking at the camera like _that_. It was terribly difficult to guess what the memories might contain. And Mycroft wouldn't be involved if this man wasn't someone incredibly lofty. "Will twenty-four hours suffice?"

"I don't know," Mycroft chuckled, pouring himself another cup of tea. "Will it?"


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock had been wheedling information out of his schoolmates for years, and his approach to Irene Adler was no different. He passed out several Galleons the next morning in exchange for whispered bits of information, and by the time the lunch bell clanged he felt he had a thorough history, which he laid out- very quickly, between surreptitious bites from John's plate- to John.

"She was raised by Muggles, in a seaside village just outside of Tintagel- a fact which she apparently detests. Though no one quite believes her, it seems Irene likes to claim Wizarding parentage; she often tells people her 'real' father was the secret lovechild of Lord Voldemort and Bellatrix Lestrange."

"I can see it," John said thoughtfully, munching on some chips. "She sort of looks like Bellatrix, doesn't she? Only less mad."

Sherlock snorted. "Her claim is dubious at best, John, though it does shed some light on her character. It's hard to think of a darker pairing than those two. Clearly she considers her Muggleborn roots to be shameful, or at the very least undesirable. Moreover, she's picked one of the most powerful men who ever lived as her grandfather. From this we can deduce a certain infatuation with power itself."

John's face took on a certain look, one that Sherlock knew meant he was about to say something stupid. "It's interesting," he said, his tone echoing the look on his face, "but what does any of this have to do with our task? We don't really need to know anything about the girl, do we? Steal the memories and bring them back, that's what Mycroft said."

"You don't honestly believe," Sherlock said incredulously, "that I'm giving the memories back without having watched them first."

"Sherlock!" gasped John, scandalized. "We can't watch those memories! They're private."

"Probably incredibly so," Sherlock smirked. "Anyway, we need to know as much about Irene as possible before we strike. From what I've learned, I've supposed a few things. One: Irene didn't steal the memories for money or fame; she stole them for _power_, which means she still has them. Two: she thinks very highly of herself, which means she likely keeps the memories in her bedroom, unguarded, while she's in class. And why not? Who would dare to break into the room of someone as eminent as her? Or so she must think. We, of course, have no such misgivings."

"So we're going to break into her room, then."

Sherlock nodded, and John sighed.

"Fine," he said, picking up his schoolbag, "but not until after my Transfiguration class. I've got my N.E.W.T.s this year, y'know."

x

"Why are you wearing that glove? It looks a bit small." John looked uneasily down the hall leading to the Slytherin common room before turning his gaze back to Sherlock's hand. "It's inside out. You're wearing a too-small, inside-out glove."

"Be quiet, John," Sherlock said absently. He was examining Irene Adler's bedroom door for signs of magic. It would've been excellent if he still had that sight-stone he and John had found over the summer, but of course Mycroft had claimed it as soon as he knew Sherlock had it. Sighing, Sherlock leaned forward and sniffed the door. He wasn't sensing anything, but... "I'm wearing this inside-out glove because the girls' rooms won't open to male hands. They can, however, be tricked into thinking you're a female if you wear a used woman's glove inside-out."

"Oh," John said. "Then what are we waiting for?"

"Well, no one would trust their door to those enchantments alone. The Muggle lock is weak, see-" He wriggled the knob to show John how loosely it caught, and the door swung wide.

That was...perplexing. Sherlock held John back for a moment, waiting to see what would happen...but nothing did. The room, dark and silent, awaited. Drawing in a deep breath, Sherlock crossed the threshold.

Irene's room was neat and smelled of perfume and candle-smoke. Her lamps were draped with brightly colored handkerchiefs, and in the corner a dress-stand stood, hung with various pretty garments. There was a vanity pushed against one wall, the surface cluttered with make-up and potions. On the mirror there was a series of Muggle photos like one taken in a souvenir booth. At the top of the strip Irene was alone, kissing at the camera. In the second photo she was looking to her right; in the third she was giggling behind her hand as a suit-clad shoulder fell into the shot; and in the final picture Irene was planting a gentle kiss on a stubble-rough cheek. Sherlock looked closer, but there was no making out the man in the photo. He was simply too far out of frame.

"So," John said awkwardly, looking around. His hands were stuffed into his pockets. "Now, what?"

Sherlock flapped his hand impatiently at a small chest lying at the foot of the bed, and John blanched.

"I can't...Sherlock, what if her-her..." He lowered his voice and looked around guiltily. "What if her _pants_ are in there?"

"If you're so terrified of touching a woman's undergarments," Sherlock snapped, rolling his eyes and pushing John out of the way, "I'll do it myself. You check her desk." Something as intimate as Sherlock imagined the stolen memories to be wouldn't be stuffed in a desk drawer, Sherlock was sure, but it couldn't hurt to check. As John rummaged through sheaths of paper and rolls of parchment, Sherlock pawed through the trunk. Nothing, nothing, nothing-

He paused. The air stirred, and the room's perfume smell took on a new facet. It was warmer, somehow, more alive...oh. He stood and looked over at the door.

"Sherlock Holmes," Irene purred, clicking the door closed behind her and making John leap into the air and yelp like a startled cat. "I wondered what it would take to get you into my bedroom." She bit her lip and looked over at John, who was watching her with eyes as big as dinner plates. "Ooh, and look," she cooed, stepping towards him slowly. "You brought a friend. Isn't he cute?" She took his tie and tugged him towards her, then looked over her shoulder at Sherlock. "I know what you're looking for, Holmes. And I have to say, I'm surprised at you. You don't know where to look, do you?" Turning back to John, she wrinkled up her nose like one might do to a puppy and breathed, "But you do, don't you? Mm, yes you do." She pulled him closer and pressed a tiny, almost-chaste kiss to John's lips. "Sorry, sweetheart," she whispered, releasing him, "I don't bed Mudbloods."

John, now free of Irene's clutches, stumbled backwards and licked his lips. He touched his fingers to his mouth, a dazed look stealing into his eyes. "I don't..." His voice was strangely slurred. "My face feels...funny..." And with that pronouncement, he promptly keeled over.

Sherlock was at his side immediately, his fingers searching for a pulse. He found it quickly, as strong and steady as ever. "What did you do to him?" he asked Irene, his voice accusing, though he was sure he knew. A bit of sleeping potion mixed in with her lip balm, perhaps. Clever.

"Just gave him a little kiss," Irene shrugged, blotting her lips with a tissue. "I evened up the odds a bit, that's all. Now it's just you and me."

_You don't know where to look, do you? _Sherlock swept his gaze up Irene's body. She was wearing the standard issue Hogwarts uniform, but it was different, subtly altered, the differences so minute that they were almost unnoticeable. Her shoes had a small heel; her skirt was a half-inch shorter than regulation, at least; her blazer was tailored inwards, defining her waist and pushing at her bust; the upper buttons on her shirt had been removed entirely. The overall effect was interesting; it lent Irene an altogether more seductive silhouette than the average Hogwarts girl, without being brazen or skimpy.

"There are some people," Sherlock said slowly, standing and walking towards her, "who would think that being left alone with me was the stuff of nightmares."

Irene smiled charmingly (Sherlock had the feeling she'd practiced that smile for long hours in the mirror, viewing it from every angle until it was perfected). "I don't scare easily, darling," she sighed, although her eyes betrayed her nerves. "Now why don't you take your sweet little friend and go-" She stopped and gasped when Sherlock's fingers touched her skin, his fingers running down the length of her neck. "Who do you think-"

Again she fell silent, though this time it was more in anger than surprise. Sherlock's hand closed around the cord that dangled from her neck, and he gave it a harsh pull.

_Snap!_

The cord broke and quickly he scooped up his prize, dangling it just out of Irene's reach. "That's sweet," he said, looking pensively at the little vial that swung from his fist. "Are they so special to you, these memories, that you felt you needed to keep them near your heart?"

"Give that back," Irene growled, dropping the sex-kitten act and balling her fists. He liked her better this way; her eyes were fierce and bright with as much intelligence as anger.

"They're no more yours than they are mine," Sherlock said tauntingly. He spared a quick glance at John, who was drooling gently on Irene's expensive throw rug-

-and then a knee was planting itself firmly into his groin.

"Oomf," Sherlock said gracelessly, bending forward. Unfortunately that meant bending directly into whatever Irene was spraying in his face. He closed his mouth and tried not to breath it in, but it was too late. Wooziness was already settling over him. "Why," he said stupidly, slumping to his knees. The room was blurring rapidly, and Irene's face was swimming in front of his.

"Give it back," she hissed, but he refused to open his hand. She slapped him three times in rapid succession, making his head spin. "Give it! Oh, for God's sake-" She sprayed him in the face again- _tastes like peppermint_, he thought foolishly- and then the world faded to black.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sherlock."

Dizzy, dizzy...if the room would just stop spinning, maybe Sherlock would open his eyes. He feebly batted away the hands that were touching his cheeks, his forehead, his neck.

"Sherlock!"

Slowly, with a long groan, Sherlock cracked open his eyes. John was leaning over him- and was it sentiment or just the last vestiges of the potion that cast that aura around John's worried face? "You're glowing," Sherlock said idiotically. He licked his lips and tried again. "Irene..."

John frowned. "Gone. Along with her trunk and a lot of her things. I wasn't sure whether or not to report her disappearance to the headmaster, so I didn't."

"Good, good." Sherlock sat up slowly. His head felt three sizes too big; it tottered on his shoulders. A quick glance around the room affirmed what John had said, with one added detail: the Muggle photo strip was gone. He brought up the images in his mind and flipped through them, pausing on the last one, the kiss. That cheek; he knew that cheek. "Moriarty," he said softly.

"What?" John looked horrified. "Sorry, what? Moriarty? What's he got to do with any of this?"

"I don't know yet, but the link is there." Sherlock rubbed his cheeks, trying to snap himself back into full alertness. "I've got to find them, find them both-"

"Whoa, whoa," John said carefully, pressing his palm into Sherlock's chest. "Settle down. You're not going anywhere just yet. Tell me what happened after I passed out. I assume she drugged me."

"Both of us," Sherlock confirmed, annoyed with himself and John and Irene...and most of all, Moriarty.

John shifted uncomfortably. "In the same way?"

"Of course not in the same way," Sherlock snarled. "Do you think after I saw what had happened to you I'd just decide to go in for a quick snog?" He stood on shaky legs and leaned against the bed-post. "I found the memories, she attacked me, and that was that." Standing was going better than he'd expected, though he wasn't quite ready to walk. "Merlin knows where she's taken them, now."

Rising as well, John took Sherlock's shoulders in his hands and looked at Sherlock sympathetically. "Hey, it's all right. No one expects you to solve every case-"

"The last thing I need right now," Sherlock growled, "is a motivational speech." He moved unsteadily towards the bedroom door. "I'm going to be gone for a few days, perhaps. Tell my professors... anything, I don't care. Tell them I'm dead, if you want."

"Sherlock-"

The boy detective ignored him. Irene on her own had been interesting enough, but Irene and Moriarty together? No way was he going to let that little duo slip between his fingers.

X

It was Saturday (three days after the episode in Irene's room) when Sherlock dragged himself back to school, temporarily defeated. He had been to all his preferred haunts and even most of his less-preferred ones; he'd spoken to the homeless, the orphans, the house-elves, and the goblins; he'd cast tracking charms and mixed finding potions and consulted more crystal balls than he cared to admit...and to no avail. It was as though Irene had simply disappeared.

Frustrated, angry, and tired, Sherlock fought through the milling weekend crowds in the corridors and slunk down to his room. Amid the usual detritus covering his floor were two new things, apparently pushed under the door: a square black envelope, and a little card of stiff burgundy paper. He picked them up with a frown.

The card bore the Hogwarts crest on one side and the name 'Arcadia Longbottom', in elegant gold ink, on the other. Sherlock made a face and crumpled it in his fist before flinging it away and tearing open the black envelope.

_Dear Sherlock Holmes, _read the letter inside. (Crisp new paper; inexpensive but wizard-made; bought at Flourish & Blotts for seven Sickles a ream, no doubt in the last weeks of summer.) _I'm very sorry to have missed you during the annual mentor meeting. Your friend John Watson informed me that there was an illness in your family. I do hope everything turned out well. I'm rather good at Herbology- it's something of a family trait- so if you need any help, please do let me know._

_Anyway, I had hoped to meet with you in order to discuss our mentoring project. I thought perhaps we could do a study on horklumps or streelers, or maybe even both! Of course, I'm open to suggestions-_

"What is this drivel?" Sherlock asked the skull of Stanley Weiss. Stan only stared about him blankly, grinning his macabre grin. Sighing, Sherlock turned back to the letter and jumped to the end.

_-looking forward to winning the Inter-House Challenge, and with you as my mentor I know I can do it! Just let me know what times are convenient for you so we can get this project underway._

_Your new friend,_

_Arcadia Jane Longbottom_

"Stanley, this needs to be destroyed." He crumpled up the letter and threw it through one of the skull's gaping eye sockets. Scooping up his violin, he settled in his chair and tore note after wretched note from the air.

X

Sherlock spent all of Sunday slumped on his bed, smoking (did Lestrade really think he wouldn't steal his cigarettes when they were such an easy target?) and reading a stack of Muggle newspapers, solving crimes under his breath. By Monday morning only one thing had become truly clear: however loathsome the task, he was going to have to shower, dress, and eat breakfast.

He expected a quip from John when he settled down on the bench beside him (and at the Gryffindor table, at that; why on Earth were they sitting at the Gryffindor table?) but his pint-sized friend seemed to pay him no mind. That was interesting. And annoying. Sherlock looked him over- clenched jaw, rapid blinks, drumming fingers- and sighed.

"You're angry," he said, reaching for John's toast.

John snatched his plate away and glared at Sherlock. "Damn right, I'm angry! Where have you been?"

"London, mostly." Sherlock looked at him askance. "Is that why you're angry? Because I went to London without you?"

"I'm angry," John seethed, "because you ran off after Moriarty alone and left me here to worry. I'm angry because you're my best friend, Sherlock, and if something happened to you..." He stopped and frowned at his plate. "I'm angry because you don't get it, do you?"

With a long-suffering sigh, Sherlock relented: "Don't get _what_?"

John only looked at him. He was silent for a long moment, his eyes tired and his mouth down-turned, before shaking his head and mumbling, "Nothing. It doesn't matter. Eat something, would you? I don't even want to know who long it's been since you ate."

x

Cross-legged, palms pressed together and placed under his chin, Sherlock sat in bed and considered. Irene and Moriarty. John. Arcadia Longbottom. Irene. Irene. Irene.

How long had she been Moriarty's cohort? (How sure was Sherlock that Moriarty's cheek was the one she'd been kissing?) Why did Moriarty choose her? (How did she outwit him?) Where was she now? (Why could he still smell her perfume on his clothes, even though they'd been washed?) It was infuriating. Insufferable. Almost more than Sherlock could stand.

He spread out across the bed and stared up at the ceiling. There was schoolwork to be done, an irritating girl to be mentored, and a best friend who's nerves needed to be settled. But Sherlock couldn't think of any of that. All he could think of was Irene.

X

"Frankly, Sherlock," John said, a few mornings later, "I'm tired of hearing about her. She's gone. She beat you. Game over."

Sherlock scowled at him, and when that lost its charm scowled instead at the nearby lake. They were outside, supposedly working on their homework. But what did Sherlock care about homework? Moriarty and Irene were out there right now...doing what? Using those memories for evil, no doubt. He had to stop them. He had to.

"You could ask about _my _life," John suggested, scratching away at his parchment. "Oh, John, how are things with Jeanette? Why, thank you for asking, Sherlock. Unfortunately Jeanette thinks I'm a total arse because of my gangly, ill-mannered best friend, and as such is only barely putting up with me. Dear me, John, that's dreadful. I know, Sherlock, isn't it?"

Leaning back on the heels of his hands, Sherlock gave John an appraising look. "Would you say you've fully lost your mind, or just a bit?"

"Says the boy obsessed with a girl he's only met once," John joked, but Sherlock sensed the bitterness underneath it.

"I'm not in love with her," he said, hoping that would sooth John's worries.

It didn't. John's eyebrows raised, and his mouth went small. "I didn't say you were."

"No, but you thought it."

John picked at a blade of grass. "It's fine if you are," he said at length. "I'm not..._upset_, or anything." Lie. "It's just..." He looked up at Sherlock, his eyes all iris in the bright sunlight. "I thought...Christ, I don't know what I thought."

Not sure what to say, Sherlock cleared his throat. "So. How're things with Jeanette?" John's ridiculous giggle filled the awkward spaces, and they both let the topic of Irene Adler drop.


	4. Chapter 4

"So," John said the next evening, in the tone he often used before going into a strop, "how's your mentor project going?"

The mentor project. Sherlock repressed the urge to groan aloud. How was he supposed to find time for such idiocy when he was busy tracking Irene and Moriarty, doing N.E.W.T. level coursework, and doing his own independent research? It was inconceivable that Sherlock was being held in the same regard as all the other students when he was so clearly not one of them.

But none of those things would make John drop the topic as easily as he suspected simply saying, "Fine," would, so that's what he did.

"Fine, huh?"

Ah. He'd been found out.

John leaned forward and whispered as harshly as he could manage without upsetting the librarian: "Arcadia told me that you've been intentionally ignoring her. She said she's tried everything. She went to the mentor seminar, she wrote you, she's hung about on the dungeon stairs and tried to talk to you in the halls." Leaning back, John folded his arms and gave Sherlock the "I'm disappointed in you" look he was so good at mustering. "She's just a kid, Sherlock, and if you don't help her with this project she'll be lucky to scrape a Dreadful on her Inter-House Unity exam. It isn't right."

That was simply too much. Sherlock's temper couldn't withstand high-handed lecturing in almost any situation, but to be moaned at over something so incredibly unimportant? Unthinkable. "If you care so much," Sherlock said, perfectly aware of how nasty his tone was, "you can help her with the project. I'm busy."

John gave him a wounded expression and then, steeling his jaw, stood and began loudly slamming his books into his schoolbags. "Sometimes, Sherlock," he said, not looking at him, "you can be a real bastard." He slung his bag over his shoulder and paused...but whatever he'd planned to say never came out. Instead he only shook his head and walked away.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and watched John go. He was still so small, even at seventeen, even with his shoulders hunched up and his back so rigid. There were rare moments- like this one, like John's small figure retreating slowly, passing through a sunbeam, his hands balled into fists- that Sherlock wished he weren't so...unusual. A normal boy would get up and go after John; a normal boy would pull him out into the corridor and kiss the worry lines from his silly face and apologize for being so terrible; a normal boy would be rewarded with one of John's slow smiles and a passing joke.

But Sherlock wasn't a normal boy. He watched John go, and then he went back to work.

x

_Knock, knock, knock._

Three quick raps on the door. Sherlock sat up- he hadn't been sleeping, just working on a report that detailed the two hundred forty three varieties of phoenix ash- and looked at his watch. 2:43 a.m. There was only one person he could think of who would be knocking so timidly so late at night.

"John?"

No answer. Why didn't he just let himself in? Groaning, Sherlock slid out of bed and opened the door, his mouth open and ready to deliver several equally-valid complaints (good-natured ones, though, the kind that made John smile crookedly). Instead he found himself using his tongue for an altogether different purpose; as soon as the door open John pushed his way inside and kissed Sherlock roughly.

John was kissing him. Why was John kissing him? (Did it matter?) The feeling was so familiar, so comforting that for a long moment (an embarrassingly long moment) Sherlock let himself get washed away in it. It had been so long since he'd felt that warmth, that white-hot desire that shot from his navel straight to his groin, that it didn't even matter that none of this made sense; he _wanted_ this, and badly.

Logic, thankfully, stepped in and pushed his hunger aside. "John," he gasped, pushing the smaller boy away and looking into his eyes, "what are you doing?"

Smiling (and what a strange, coy little smile it was), John lifted a finger to his lips and shook his head. He slid his fingers up Sherlock's chest slowly and then back down again, flicking open the buttons on Sherlock's shirt as he went and dropping kiss after kiss on the bare flesh he revealed. By the time he reached the last button he was on his knees, looking up at Sherlock from beneath his lashes and toying with his belt buckle.

It finally stuck Sherlock that he might want to close his bedroom door.

John chuckled a little as the door snicked closed...and the sound of it was completely _wrong_. Sherlock ran his hand through John's sand-and-silt coloured hair as John undid his zipper, and gasped, "Imperious, Polyjuice, or something else?"

For just a few seconds, John stilled. Then he smiled and popped the button on Sherlock's trousers. "Does it matter?"

Sherlock considered. "I imagine it should."

"Hmm." John slid his hand inside Sherlock's fly- the contact made him hiss and arch his back- and put on a thoughtful face as he groped. "Which is worse?"

"Imperious," Sherlock managed. His hips were bucking without any input from his brain, and it was getting harder to breathe normally. "If it's Imperious, he's watching this without being able to stop it."

John giggled and nuzzled his check against the seat of Sherlock's pants. "Ooh, I rather like the idea of that," he said teasingly. "It's almost like a threesome."

Not Imperious, then, Sherlock was sure. "Where have you been hiding, Miss Adler?" Sherlock asked, slightly alarmed by the dreamy quality of his voice.

She looked up at him through John's hazel eyes and spoke in John's disarmingly friendly voice. "I've been around." With John's warm, oh-so-familiar hand she tugged him free of his trousers, and she did a trick with John's tongue that made Sherlock's eyes roll back in his head.

He clutched at John's hair if only for something to hold on to and swallowed drily. "I presume," he said, a bit brokenly, "there's some ulterior purpose to this visit."

Irene hummed her assent and the vibration was enough to make Sherlock's breath catch in his throat. For a long moment it was simply impossible to force any more words from his throat; his entire vocabulary had been shortened to elongated vowels and primitive grunts. Then, when it was through and Irene was licking the taste of him from her (_John's_) lips, he finally managed to pant, "You're in danger."

"Yes." She stood- and how feminine her movements were, how strange they seemed in John's small body- and kissed the point of Sherlock's jaw, lightly nipped at his throat, scratched her nails down his chest.

Sherlock kissed her hungrily. "You need me to save you," he whispered against her mouth.

Irene laughed- too throaty, the sound of it too harsh in John's voice- and shook her head. "No, dear-heart. I need you to stay out of it."

"Impossible."

She _smelled_ like John, like cheap detergent and foam shaving cream and that something warm that was simply, even to Sherlock's expertly trained nose, undefinable. On her tip-toes, she leaned into Sherlock and whispered in his ear: "Do you want me like this?" He could hear the smile in her voice as she added, "I'll even let you call me John, if you want."

The rush of heat in his stomach was undeniable. "Yes," he said, surprising himself. His fingers dug into her- John's- hips.

"We don't have long." Irene was grinding against him slowly, each rock of her hips careful and calculated. "Who do you want me to be?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed his face into her neck. "John," he mumbled, half-ashamed of himself but too aroused to fully care. "I want you to be John."


	5. Chapter 5

He woke up alone and disoriented. Sleep wasn't something that came easy to him, nor was it something he regularly deigned to do. He wondered, a bit absently, if Irene had drugged him again.

The bed was cold and too big despite its thinness. Sherlock took a deep breath- he thought he could still smell John on his sheets- and sat up. He twitched his fingers and all the candles in the room burst to life.

On his desk a space had been cleared away. In the center of that empty space were three items: a vial, its silvery contents swirling slowly; a folded sheet of paper; and a single strand of short ash-blonde hair. Sherlock's mouth twitched almost imperceptibly on one side as he twirled his wrist, causing the sheet of paper to lift, fold itself into a neat little aeroplane, and zip over to him, where it dropped into his waiting palm.

Irene's handwriting was as curvaceous and elegant as the girl herself. _Keep these safe for me_, the letter read. _And tell your boyfriend to be a little more careful with his DNA. xoxo_

Beneath the words she'd placed a lipstick-kiss in deep crimson. Sherlock ran his thumb across the print of her bottom lip and frowned. Irene wouldn't have parted with those memories for no reason. He'd been right to think she was in danger...but how much danger?

His magic was never as strong when he was burdened with emotion. Irritated, he muttered, "_Accio shell._" The little conch fought its way out of his coat pocket and flew across the room. He raised it to his lips. "Mycroft."

"Ignoring the fact that it is just now four a.m.," Mycroft answered tetchily, a yawn in his voice, "it's always so lovely to hear your voice. What can I do for you, brother mine? Has your Muggleborn friend killed someone else in your service?"

Sherlock made a face. "I think you're going to find Irene Adler soon," he said, choosing not to respond to Mycroft's sarcasms.

"Oh? And has she given you any indication of her plans in regards to the memories, since you're apparently in communication with her?"

"No," Sherlock said, feeling strangely solemn, "I mean you're going to find her dead."

"Ah." Sherlock could hear Mycroft shifting in bed, sitting up and casting his own morning spells. "I see." His tone wasn't sarcastic in the least when he added, "And would you care to inform me as to how you've come to this conclusion?"

Sherlock's only answer was to let the shell fall from his fingers. He'd been right about the photo, about the Moriarty connection, that had to be true. Irene was frightened for her life. And if Moriarty (and worse, Sebastian Moran) decided to kill her, it would take Sherlock himself to save her life.

But she didn't tell him where she'd gone, or why. She'd left him nothing but a lipstick kiss and a cold bed.

X

After Sherlock had collected himself, showered, and put on freshly-ironed clothes, he sat cross-legged on his bed. He settled a small stone bowl (an ancient Pensieve, and the pride of Sherlock's collection) in his lap and lifted the memory vial to his eyes. The silver fluid within churned slowly. He uncapped it- smelled the contents briefly, noting nothing particularly informative- and dumped them gently, methodically into the bowl.

The memories smoothed out in the bowl, more viscous than water, more other-worldly than blood. He let them settle, then took a deep breath and dipped his face into the shimmering substance.

Immediately he was transported to a stately office. A roaring fire crackled in the hearth, and a man- white-haired, bespectacled, with the tired but enduring look of a politician- stood at the room's only window, peering pensively down at the darkened street below. A noise drew his attention and he gave a little start. He looked in Sherlock's direction and groaned. "Not you again!"

Sherlock quirked his eyebrow and swiveled, bringing himself nose-to-nose with the Minister of Magic. The MOM was a scarecrow of a man, swimming in his bespoke suit (which he never wore amid wizards, Sherlock noted) and looking at the other man down the long slope of his large, pointed nose. "Have I come at a bad time?" the Minister asked politely.

The other man pulled a face and went to his desk, unlocking the top drawer. "It's always a bad time," he whinged. "You're a regular harbinger of doom. Oh, go on. Give me the good news." He pulled a silver flask from the drawer, unscrewed the cap with shaking fingers, and took a healthy swig.

There was a fat, cozy chair near the window, and Sherlock eased down into it, folding his legs and setting his elbows on his knees. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was happening here; the Minister of Magic was meeting with the Prime Minister of Britain. Interesting.

"It's true," the MOM sighed. "Unfortunately, my news this time is especially dire."

The other minister shook his head tremulously. "Fantastic. Do tell."

"There have been...incidents." The MOM took a steeling breath, his eyes on the fire. "Initially, I thought it best not to concern you or your kind." There was an odd, distasteful emphasis on the last word that made Sherlock lean forward. "However, the time for such secrecy has ended. I'm afraid it's happening again."

"Not..." The other minister paled. "Not...surely not like last time?"

The MOM shook his head. "It's not on the same scale, no. Not yet, anyway. Research indicates a potential leap in activity, however, and soon. I fear that Mugglekind is once again being targeted by a rouge Wizard, and once again we have failed to contain it. Prepare yourself, Minister. Dark days are coming."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the other minister blanched and reached once more for his flask, drinking greedily and wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes stared, unfocused, at the window. "What can I do?" he asked, his voice small. He looked at the MOM with fire blazing suddenly in his eyes. "What can I do? I can't very well hop on the telly and warn everyone to be on the lookout for a psychopath in a frilly robe, can I?"

"The leader of these terrorists prefers expensive suits, I'm told," the MOM said without irony. He brushed uncomfortably at his own suit before answering. "I don't know what to do anymore than you do," he said at last, weary and honest. "This man and his organization have eluded our best. We didn't even know what he was _doing _until he came out and told us as much. His methods are so erratic as to be unforseeable, and his team is enviably loyal." He looked at the other minister sadly and held up his hands. "I don't know. That's the truth. I don't know. But may your God and all our heroes be with us now, because until this group is neutralized, none of us are safe. Good day, sir." The MOM gave an awkward little bow and turned on the spot before popping away into nothingness.

The other minister stared, slack-jawed, at the spot where the MOM had just been standing. Then he slowly shook his head, finished off his flask, and slumped face-first on his desk.

Sherlock shifted in his chair, and the room shifted with him. The moans reached his awareness first: soft, breathy, definitely female. Squeaking bed-springs and the scent of sex accompanied the moans, and the new memory made itself more clear.

Posh hotel; soft lighting. Sherlock was sitting in a different but equally plush and tasteful chair, facing an enormous, all-white bed. The covers were kicked in an untidy pile to the foot of the bed, dangling messily. The pillows were mostly scattered, though one was underneath the Minister of Magic's head. His eyes were squeezed closed, his lips drawn in. Straddling him, with her back arched and her hair tumbling wildly down her back, was Irene Adler.

Ah. Mycroft's involvement began to make a little more sense.

Irene cut a pretty figure in the dim hotel lighting. Her breasts were small but sweetly rounded, and she held them lightly as she rocked her hips. Sherlock's eyes automatically traced the line of her slim neck and settled on her mouth, her red lips lightly parted.

"I'm close, my love," the Minister panted.

Irene's eyes slitted open dispassionately, but her voice was eager as she cooed, "Oh, yes, yes, come for me, darling."

The Minister didn't disappoint her. When it was through, Irene climbed off him and made for the bathroom, looking disgustedly at her soiled thighs as she went.

"I do wish you'd stay," the Minister called after her, his breathing still rough. He settled his head back against the pillow and let out a sigh.

"Mm, I believe the agreement was one hour, Mr. Minister," Irene said, her voice echoing. Sherlock stood and walked over to the bathroom, leaning on the doorframe as he watched Irene. She cleaned between her legs with a flannel and chucked it into the bin with a sneer. Then she pouted at herself in the mirror and tossed her hair. "You could always owl my master, if you like."

"I have done," the Minister called from the bed. "Twice. No response."

Irene smiled at her reflection. "Pity. Well, I really must dash." She scooped up a slim, silky dress from the floor and tugged it on, admiring the way it gripped her curves. At the door, she turned and blew him a kiss. "I'll see you soon, I hope," she lied, her wide eyes betraying her disgust so thoroughly that Sherlock thought the Minister must have known. "Ta!" She toed on her heels, mussed her curls, and slipped out into the corridor, humming one of Sherlock's favorite piano concertos under her breath.

The scene replayed after that, with subtle differences. The Minister was younger and more handsome in the repeat memory, and Irene looked both older and more innocent. When she climbed off his lap she looked sated rather than annoyed, and the exchange from the bathroom sounded more wistful and heartfelt. Her look as she left was both lusty and loving, not disgusted, and when she was gone the Minister settled back in bed with a contented smile. One memory; two perspectives. That was interesting, too.

Breathlessly, Sherlock lifted his face away from the Pensieve and sat back. His mind was whirling, but one thought fought its way to the fore-front. Those photos, the ones from Mycroft's file. If the Minister hadn't taken them- and now it was clear that he hadn't- then who had?


	6. Chapter 6

The memories were placed in a secret place only Sherlock knew of, a secluded and disused room in the castle full of tiny golden safe deposit boxes. He had hidden countless things in the room before without trouble, so he felt confident that the memories wouldn't be disturbed.

Sherlock intended to go to class after hiding the memories but he was just too restless. He walked into Potions, paced the room irritably, and walked right back out again. How could he bother with something as fiddly as (his normally beloved) Potions when Irene might still be alive? And not for long, Sherlock imagined. He thought back to those photos Mycroft had shown him- so intimate, taken over long stretches of time- and the series of pictures Irene had pasted on her mirror, the photobooth pictures and that stubble-coated cheek. Moriarty. It all led back to Moriarty.

The discussion in the Prime Minister's office. The mention of a master. Moriarty. Sherlock could _feel_ the memory of his smile creeping up his back like sickly fingers. John thought Sherlock was obsessed with Irene, but John wasn't known for his mental prowess. It wasn't Irene who managed to stir up all the energy inside of Sherlock and propel him down empty corridors, muttering and dragging his fingers through his hair.

It was Moriarty.

X

Thoughts of John calmed Sherlock considerably, however. After only two hours pacing, he pictured John's favorite jumper (the hideous oatmeal one that he always wore on Hogsmeade weekends) and his compassionate eyes and stopped, hands on his temples. John could help. Sherlock didn't understand how (or why, for that matter) but John was one of the more beneficial influences in Sherlock's whirlwind life.

Thinking thusly, Sherlock stormed off towards the Charms classroom, distantly aware of his bedraggled demeanor. He pushed both double doors open wide and swanned in, half-sitting on John's desk and look at him solemnly.

"Excuse me, young man," the professor began, but Sherlock held up a finger.

"Official Auror business," he said, standing and pulling John out of the room after him.

John, for his part, followed quickly and calmly. "We've got a case?" he asked hopefully, matching Sherlock's long and frantic stride.

Sherlock dragged him into the prefect's bathroom and enchanted the door so it would stay locked. He paced the length of the big bathtub, turned on his heel, paced back again. Stopping right in front of John, he looked his little friend over and made to speak when the shell in his pocket called out crisply, "Sherlock?"

John looked at Sherlock's pocket, then back at Sherlock. "Mycroft's calling you? In the middle of the day?" He shifted his weight uncomfortably. "Maybe you'd better let me back out into the hall."

Ignoring him, Sherlock scooped the shell out and frowned at it. "Irene," he said.

"Yes," Mycroft replied blandly. "As expected."

Dead. Sherlock's face was still and placid, but his stomach was clenching miserably. "You're quite sure it's her."

"Yes, though you could come see her if you'd like."

Sherlock shuddered inwardly. "That won't be necessary."

"John is there," Mycroft said slowly, "but otherwise you are alone, correct?"

"Yes."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Then let me remind you that caring is not an advantage. All lives end. All hearts are broken. And she was only a girl."

"Wait..." John caught on, his eyes round. "Are you...are you saying..."

"She's dead, John, yes." Mycroft sighed. "From now on, you will both stay out of this. Had I realized how extensively messy this particular case was, I would never have involved you."

"Because of the Minister of Magic's connections," Sherlock asked, his voice mock-pleasant, "or because of Moriarty's?"

John blinked rapidly, taking an actual step back from the conversation, but Mycroft was all frosty silence. After a long moment he hissed: "You will stay out of this, Sherlock Holmes. Do you understand me?"

"Don't be imbecilic, Mycroft. We both know I won't." Sherlock stuffed the shell back into his pocket and grimaced. Irene was dead. He had known she was in danger but did nothing to save her. The beginnings of a Black Mood began to sink over him slowly, wending its way into his bones. Almost disinterestedly, he flicked his wrist towards the door and it creaked open. "Go, John."

"Sherlock." John shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry. If you need-"

"Go."

John gave him a long, pity-drenched look. He seemed about to say something...but then he shook his head, clapped Sherlock's shoulder, and went.

X

The days passed like time in a dream. Bluster and sibling rivalry had led Sherlock to tell Mycroft he'd continue hunting Moriarty, but in truth what did he have to go on? Three memories. The last two served an obvious purpose: blackmail. Her memory and his were a matched set (well, nearly) so they corroborated each other. The first...

Why steal _that_ memory? (And she must have stolen in it, perhaps during a different "hour" spent in the Minister's company.) Proof of Moriarty's power over the government? No. The memory did cast a rather hopeless picture, but that hardly mattered. And the news the MOM gave the other Minister wasn't monumental; the Daily Prophet had been reporting on Moriarty's activities since the Quidditch games last year. So what?

Sherlock spent most of the next several days lying on the floor in his dressing gown, composing mournful music and inventing new spells. Thought work. That sometimes helped.

_The Minister of Magic and the Prime Minister are in an office together, discussing the fate of Muggles worldwide. That's important. Why is it important? Because the Muggles don't know. They don't know about the other Minister; they don't know about the attacks; they don't even know about magic._

Ah. But what if they were to find out?

Sherlock sat up suddenly, tossing his violin aside. Chaos. Widespread panic. Muggles looting, burning, hunting down anyone they even suspected was capable of magic. They would need someone to rally them back together and sooth their fears. Someone clever, someone with connections. Someone like Moriarty.

The former headmaster wasn't just planning to kill or enslave the Muggles, he was planning to destroy the infrastructure from the ground up and replace it with something more to his liking. That's why he needed that memory. And that's why he'd killed Irene. Because she had done her job and retrieved it, but then she'd watched it and figured out what Moriarty intended to do. She wasn't just a girl, she was the cleverest girl Hogwarts had ever seen. And she'd died a martyr for magic, though everyone would remember her as a whore.

Amazing.

Sherlock jumped up and began yanking on clothes- but then he faltered. He couldn't tell John. Moriarty knew that Irene had ditched the memories by now, he was sure, and it wouldn't take him long to figure out who had them. John was already at risk; Sherlock wouldn't willingly further his endangerment. The less John knew, the better.


	7. Chapter 7

"I still haven't forgiven you, for the record," John said, punctuating his statement with a yawn.

It was getting to cold for this, lying out on the lawn and working on essays. Sherlock shivered and considered. To which transgression was John referring? "I don't know what you're talking about," he said after a moment, using his sniffy tone to hide the fact that he was, for once, being entirely honest.

John shook his head and turned over on to his back, levitating his quill above his palm. "The Inter-House Challenge? The horrendous way you've been treating Arcadia? Ringing any bells?"

That nonsense again? "What would you have me do, John?" he said, sitting up. "I'm busy. And I refuse to bring her in on cases; those are _ours_."

He expected John to be miffed about that, but instead he smiled bashfully and the tips of his ears turned pink. "Well," he said, picking at the grass. He was quiet for a long while. Then he turned on his side, propped his head up in his hand, and said, "How about a potion?"

Sherlock stopped scribbling long enough to give him a withering look.

"I'm serious!" John sat up excitedly. "You give her the notes for one of the potions you've invented, and she has to replicate it perfectly. Oh- and then you can have her create the potion's opposite or antidote or whatever!" He grinned at Sherlock. "If that doesn't keep her busy for the rest of the year, that girl's a genius."

Alarmingly, Sherlock was impressed. It neatly solved the problem of the idiotic project with minimal drain on Sherlock's time or patience. "John, I could kiss you," Sherlock said cheerily, causing the other boy's blush to deepen. "I'll go fetch my notes."

x

Sherlock considered two things on his walk to the dungeons: which potion he should assign the unfortunate girl who drew his name for the Challenge, and why Moriarty had yet to visit him.

The first question preoccupied only the tiniest sliver of his mind. He would give her something challenging but not so challenging that she would require his help to do it, something that required a great deal of collecting ingredients (that would keep her busy), and something that wouldn't make John frown (so nothing illegal or overly dangerous). That left either the improved Invisibility potion he'd discovered in his third year, or the energy potion he'd concocted over the summer.

The second question, however, troubled him deeply. It had been nearly a week since Irene's visit, nearly a week in which he'd possessed the memories Moriarty so clearly wanted. He checked on them daily (always differing the time and route he took) but the memories seemed entirely undisturbed. Nothing. Why? Was it possible Sherlock had been wrong about Moriarty's involvement? (Unlikely. But then, where was he?)

He was wrapped in his thoughts quite thoroughly- and yet the moment he set eyes on his bedroom door, he knew something was amiss. Nothing _looked _wrong, true...but he couldn't feel the familiar buzz of his own spellwork surrounding the frame. He approached the door slowly, warily, and laid his palm against the door. All his spells were down. The room was unprotected.

His eyes wide, Sherlock took a step back and raked his gaze throughout the hall. Nothing. He stepped back towards the door again, pressed his forehead against the door, and let his sight drift. He could see inside the room, though the view was foggy. Everything was exactly as he'd left it: clothes were strewn here and there, books were stacked in odd places, vials and pouches spilled their contents on his desk and floor. The bed, though...he pressed his sight forward, ignoring the nausea that came with such complicated magic. There was someone in his bed. He thought he could smell her perfume, even from the doorway.

Irene.

X

"None of it's true." Irene sat propped against Sherlock's pillow, her knees pulled to her chest and her hair still damp from the bath. She leaned forward and fixed Sherlock with a penetrating look. "My whole life has been one lie after another."

"And your death as well," Sherlock said blandly. He was at his desk, his foot tapping irritably.

Irene smiled deprecatingly. "This time, at least."

"But you don't think you'll be so lucky next time."

"No," Irene said softly, pulling Sherlock's dressing gown around her more tightly. "No, I don't think I will."

Sherlock sat back and drummed his fingers on the arm rests. "Tell me the truth."

Irene's silence stretched on for so long that Sherlock began to consider getting up and shaking her. At last, however, she broke the silence. "I tell people at school all sorts of rubbish about my life, but my favorite story is that I was born by the sea, to Muggle parents. That's true, although not the way I tell it." She tucked an errant curl behind her ear. "I was born in America. New Jersey, actually. My parents couldn't stand me. They thought it was unnatural, the things I could do. They did, however, recognize my talent. Did you know I was a singer, Sherlock?" Irene smiled prettily. "I had a very sweet voice, as a child. I sang at operas in New York, initially, but my parents managed to book a European tour when I was eight. It was in Warsaw that I met him. James Moriarty."

Sherlock sat forward, his eyes flashing. "Go on."

"He rescued me," Irene insisted, hugging her legs. "My parents...they were awful people. And I was so thankful, Sherlock, when he took me away from them."

"He kidnapped you."

"Yes." Irene licked her lips, looked away. "Yes, I suppose he did. But it didn't feel that way, not to me. It was exciting. He was so handsome, and so rich, and so _powerful_." She shivered. "And he loved me. He told me constantly that I was beautiful, that he'd never seen such a lovely girl, that men the world over would fall to their knees in worship of me." She smiled ruefully. "We traveled all over, and I did the sort of things every little girl dreams of. There were ponies and fancy parties and expensive candies-"

"The photos." Sherlock stood; he couldn't sit still any longer. "The photos! How did the Minister of Magic get those photos?"

"All in due time, Sherlock," Irene purred. She stood and pressed him back into his chair, then settled easily in his lap. "You know what they say: nothing in this world is free. And James made me work for my fantasy life. But you know that already, don't you?"

"And you found it agreeable, did you?" Sherlock asked nastily. "Taking powerful men to bed and stealing their secrets?"

Irene scowled. "It didn't start that way. He had me sing for them, at first. Sit in their laps. Kiss their scruffy cheeks. Nothing improper." She stood, suddenly, and paced away, her nostrils flaring. "Things progressed beyond my control. And before I knew it-"

"You were prostituted to the world's elite," Sherlock finished, standing as well. He caught Irene's arm and pulled her closer, looking into her eyes. "Did he threaten you?"

Irene's gaze burned into him. "He never needed to," she said fiercely. "I loved him."

"What changed?"

Tugging free, Irene wrapped her thin arms around herself. "This mess with the Minister." She shook her head, her brow furrowed. "You know what he wants to do, don't you? You've seen the memories. He wants to bring about a revolution. And for what? For the power, yes. But I think it's more than that, Sherlock. I think it's the death he's after. The destruction." Irene looked up at Sherlock, her wide eyes damp. "I'm not eight years old anymore. This isn't kissing old men's cheeks and dancing in ball rooms. I can't..." Her voice broke and she turned away, her palm pressed to her mouth and her eyes brimming.

Was it an act? Astoundingly, Sherlock wasn't sure. He sat back down in his desk chair and steepled his palms over his lap. "How did the Minister of Magic get those photographs, Irene?"

Irene's back straightened almost imperceptibly. When she turned around to face him, her eyes were brimmed red but her voice was steady. "The Minister is a man of certain tastes. James knew what he liked."

"Schoolgirls, namely." Sherlock frowned. "How did he know that? Did he contact the Minister, or did the Minister contact him?"

"We heard it along the way," Irene said vaguely, spinning her hand in the air. "James made him an offer- not in person, of course, and never using our real names."

"Is Irene Adler your real name?" Sherlock asked.

Irene smiled secretively. "Perhaps."

"So." Sherlock stood and paced circles around Irene. "You're telling me that the Minister never, at any point, realized he was dealing with the Wizarding world's most notorious criminal."

"That's what I'm saying," Irene said, with a tip of her head.

Sherlock stopped directly in front of her. "Suppose I don't believe you."

"Do you want to catch James before he takes over the world or not?" she huffed defiantly, standing at her full height. Sherlock's expression seemed answer enough; she grinned and fell back on her heels, folding her arms under her breasts. "That's what I thought," she said chipperly. "And if that's the case, Sherlock Holmes, you're just going to have to take my word as bond."


	8. Chapter 8

Classes fell to the wayside. Days were spent sleeping cramped together in Sherlock's twin-sized bed or looking over notes, planning, examining maps and documents Irene had brought with her. Nights were spent in London, tracking through the streets, following Moriarty's scent. It was frustrating; every time Sherlock felt they were close, something new set them back even further than they'd been when they started.

Irene proved herself an intelligent and not entirely uninteresting companion. She was an adept liar with a keen wit and smile that suggested implicitly that it could not be trusted, but she was quick-minded and not as useless as he'd expected in a fight. More than once, Irene's hasty spellwork and cheerful use of sleeping potions got them out of a tight spot.

They trudged to bed one morning nearly two weeks after Irene had appeared in his bed and fell into it still fully dressed. They'd been in quite in a physical fight; eight-on-two, everything happening too fast for magic to be useful. Sherlock's body ached from head to toe. He laid stretched on his back, still breathing hard, his eyes closed.

"Fighting always kicks up the most carnal desires, doesn't it?" Irene sighed beside him. She was tucked up against his side, her hand on his chest. "There's nothing I'd like more right now than a warm bath, a hot meal, and a good shag. Not necessarily in that order."

"You know where the facilities are," Sherlock answered, aware of the way Irene's fingers were moving in slow circles, tracing downwards towards his stomach.

"Sherlock." Leaning up on her elbow, Irene loomed over him. "It's not as though we've never done this before."

Sherlock slitted his eyes open. "That was different."

"Is it because I'm a woman, or because I'm not John?" Irene brushed her hair from her face and slid her way slowly into Sherlock's lap, her hands on his chest. He didn't stop her, but he didn't encourage her, either. He kept his hands firmly on the bed. "Come on, lovely," she breathed, kissing his cheek, the corner of his mouth. She pouted. "Don't make me beg."

The warmth of her body and the slow twitch of her hips overrode all of Sherlock's sensibilities. He felt outside himself; with no input whatsoever from his brain, his hands slid up her thighs and settled on her waist. His fingers tightened, bunching the fabric of her shirt.

"That's it," Irene murmured, rocking harder in his lap. "That's it, Sherlock." She took his hands and ran them up her body, cupping them around her breasts. "That's it, darling."

x

Sex became part of the routine. Hunt Moriarty and fight baddies at night; crawl into bed and writhe like maniacs during the day. It was idiotic and an unnecessary taxation on Sherlock's time and energy, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. Was it the adrenaline turning him into such a buffoon? Or some clever spell on Irene's part? He dreaded dawn and yet within moments of sunrise there he would be, thrusting mindlessly and gasping as Irene made little broken noises and scratched at his back.

Often, after these marathon events in his bedroom, he needed to get away. He would go shower, eat some breakfast with John (who remarked upon his sleeplessness with a frown, most mornings), and go to a few classes. By mid-afternoon he'd head back down to the dungeons and climb into bed, turning his back to Irene and her gentle snores. He resented her presence, but he couldn't brush her off. He needed her information; he wanted, however basely, their morning escapades. He disliked her; he obsessed over her.

They were getting nowhere. Sherlock began to wonder if Moriarty was even in the country, much less London. But Irene was his best hope of finding the ex-headmaster, and giving up wasn't an option. He followed her lead, however hateful he found following to be.


	9. Chapter 9

It was a night like any other. Rumors had led them to a riverboat and a one-eyed Squib of a captain. Unfortunate circumstances had then found them being chucked overboard to flounder in the Thames. Irene Apparated them back to Hogsmeade and they walked up the hill to the castle in their soggy clothes and in complete silence. An awful sort of suspicion had begun to wend its way through Sherlock's skull, but he was tired to the bones and colder than he'd ever been and his thoughts refused to line up properly.

They snuck into the castle and slipped into his bedroom in the usual way. With slow, cold-stiff fingers they undressed each other, pulling drenched fabric away from filthy skin. The smell was abhorrent; the taste of Irene's skin was muddied, literally, by the filthy dregs that coated her shivering body. It didn't matter. Sherlock dragged his lips down the newly bared flesh of her stomach as he knelt at her feet, working her dripping dress from around her hips.

Irene hummed her assent as Sherlock's mouth trailed lower, her fingers weaving into his matted curls. He ran his hand up her goose-fleshed thigh and stroked the warmth between her legs, watching as her mouth fell open and her eyes drooped closed.

It was a morning like any other, except it wasn't. Because time had hurried past unnoticed by Sherlock, who considered himself for too busy for things like calendars. If it had been important he would have been able to deduce the date or at the very least a close approximation...but it wasn't important to him, not at that moment. Irene had perched timorously on the edge of the bed, one foot on the frame and her hands clenched in the sheets, and she was gasping sharply at every thrust of his long fingers. What else could matter at a moment like that? And so he forgot.

He remember in the instant he heard the lock click. John. John's birthday.

"Sherlock?" The door creaked. Sherlock could smell his aftershave and the soap the house-elves used to wash his clothes. "I know it's early but I didn't think you'd be...sleeping..." His footsteps and voice faltered simultaneously.

"Oh," Irene breathed, half laughing and half gasping. "Well, this is a turn-up, isn't it?" Her fingers loosed from Sherlock's hair.

It was no use keeping his face pressed to Irene's lap like a frightened child. His throat was dry, but Sherlock made sure his countenance was perfectly blank as he stood and turned towards the doorway. It was harder to keep his expression clear as he regarded the one John presently wore. Pain darkened his eyes. Humiliation, betrayal. Did John realize how easy it was to see every detail of his emotions on his face? How could he wear his hurt so unguardedly, letting Sherlock read it in the droop of his mouth and the depths of his stare?

But then, astonishingly, John's face was wiped clean. His mouth snapped closed and hardened into a firm line, and his eyes narrowed. He cleared his throat once, twice, and his hands furled and unfurled at his sides. "Right," he said, voice rough. "How long has..." He shook his head. "No, I don't want to know."

Surely Sherlock was expected to say something at this point, but what? _John, I've been in love with you since the night after we met but I'm not a good person and you should have known I'd break your heart every time you'd allow me? John, it's okay, I'm mainly using her as a substitute for you? John, it's possible that I might love Irene in some capacity but that's all right because I hate her, too?_

Any of those would have been preferable to what he actually said: "Happy birthday, John," his voice hoarse and low.

Irene let out a startled giggle and pressed her palm to her mouth. John's eyes narrowed further. He seemed to come to a decision all at once, his shoulders leveling and his chest expanding. "Right," he said again before pointing his finger at Sherlock. "I'm telling your brother." He looked accusingly at Irene and changed the direction of his finger towards her. "You died. Months ago."

"A perfectly innocent mix-up, I assure you," Irene smiled. "Is it your birthday, Johnny dear? Sherlock hadn't mentioned."

John didn't answer. He turned on his heel and strode down the hall, not even closing the door behind him. Swearing under his breath, Sherlock yanked on whatever dry articles of clothing he could find. He buttoned his shirt crookedly as he padded out into the hall, his bare feet thudding heavily on the cool tile.

He caught up to John on the stairs to the dungeons and grabbed his arm, pulling him close. "There are extenuating circumstances," he began hurriedly, but John tore free of his grip and gave him a silencing look.

"I've trusted you with my life since the moment we met," John said hotly, somehow managing to look down at Sherlock despite being a foot shorter. "Why couldn't you just tell me? You could've told me she was alive, that you and she were..." He bit his lip, shook his head. "I told you it was fine, if you wanted to see other people. Why didn't you trust me enough to tell me?"

"There was too much at risk," Sherlock said quietly. People milled past them, giving them odd glances, but John hardly seemed to notice.

"Too much at risk," John repeated, making the phrase sound like an insult. "What, have you been working a case together, then?" The pain in his voice at the suggestion was nearly palpable.

Sherlock dropped his voice, leaned in close. "It's Moriarty. She's been helping me-"

"Moriarty?" John hissed. "You're tangled up in that mess, again? No, that's it, now I'm definitely going to your brother."

"You musn't," Sherlock said quickly, thinking of what Mycroft would do if he knew Irene were still alive. "John-"

"No, you can't do this on your own, Sherlock, however highly you think of yourself." John crossed his arms. "Professor Moriarty isn't a- a puzzle, or a plaything. He's dangerous, Sherlock."

Sherlock crossed his arms as well. "Most of our cases are dangerous."

John shook his head. "Not like this." He started back up the steps.

"If you tell my brother, I'll never forgive you!" Sherlock called after him.

Pausing, his back stiff, John was silent for a moment. Then, barely audible over the din of traffic surrounding them, he replied, "If I don't tell your brother and something happens to you, Sherlock, I'll never forgive myself." He jogged up the steps, disappearing into the mill of students at the top.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock went back to his room to warn Irene and found her fully dressed, her hair twisted up into a messy bun and most of the river muck wiped from her skin. She was packing the little weekend bag she'd brought with her, shoving clothes into it with complete disregard for neatness.

"You're leaving?" Sherlock asked stupidly. He mentally cursed and tried again, "Where will you go?"

"Penny in the air," Irene sighed, clicking the bag closed and turning to smile crookedly at Sherlock. "Where do you think I'll go?"

It surprised him to realize he didn't know. "On the run, perhaps-"

Irene laughed and crossed the room, slipping her arms around his waist. "No, silly." She leaned up and kissed him softly. "You remember I once said to you that I loved James Moriarty? I lied." She dropped her voice to a whisper, her mouth brushing his ear as she spoke. "I love him still." She stepped back, her eyes flashing and her lips curled. "And now the penny drops."

And it did drop; plummeted, in fact. It was a suspicion Sherlock had been struggling with for days. Irene's little hunt for Moriarty amounted to nothing more than a wild goose chase. "Why?" he asked, knowing she'd get his meaning.

"For fun. Why else?" Irene clicked open a compact and examined herself, turning this way and that in the mirror. "James felt like playing a game." She looked at him from over the mirror. "It has been fun, hasn't it?"

Sherlock's mouth felt dry. "The memories-"

"Dear lord," Irene laughed, "you still don't get it. Sherlock, darling, those memories served exactly one purpose: getting you into the game. James doesn't want them." She shrugged. "Why should he? A man like that hardly needs to blackmail the Minister." Giggling, she looked back at the mirror and dabbed at her lips with a handkerchief. "By the way, I've drugged you again. Slow-acting, this time, so you should start feeling the effects...about now, I imagine."

The dryness in his mouth had gotten worse, and his head was pounding. Sherlock blinked heavily. "You-"

Irene gave him a pitying look. She clicked the compact closed and crossed over to him, helping him down to the floor. "Shush now," she said sweetly, stroking his hair. He made to speak again and she pressed her finger to his lips. "No, no, shh, shh, shh." She touched his cheek, her eyes soft. "I have enjoyed this little game of ours," she admitted. "But all good things must come to an end, isn't that right? Sleep now, dearest. That's it." Gently, she pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Good bye, Sherlock. And sweet dreams." She stood. The sound of her heels was muffled by the fog that closed around him.

He slept.

X

He woke up to find John kneeling at his side. "He's awake," John said, glancing over his shoulder. Sherlock followed his gaze groggily and groaned at the sight of Mycroft standing in the middle of his room, an expression of clear distaste tugging at his features.

Mycroft didn't stop his scan of the bedroom as he stated dully, "I suppose Irene's absence means you let her get away."

Sherlock didn't answer. He looked up at John's face, instead, reading it like a book. John was still angry, although there was a flicker of relief behind his eyes.

Taking Sherlock's silence for what it was, Mycroft nodded to himself. "And one can presume she took the memories with her."

"One can presume incorrectly," Sherlock said, his voice rough. He sat up slowly, rubbing his temples. "The memories are in a safe place. You'll get them when I'm able to stand."

Mycroft raised his eyebrow delicately. "She didn't take the memories?"

Ignoring him, Sherlock looked at John, who- despite his anger- was still at Sherlock's side, watching Sherlock with the same expression he would no doubt wear whilst examining patients at St. Mungo's. "I'm sorry," Sherlock said quietly, surprising both John and himself. He cleared his throat, shot a look at Mycroft, and lowered his voice. "It was never a matter of trust, John. I just didn't want you to get hurt."

John searched his face and then nodded once, solemnly. "Apology accepted," he said with a hint of a smile. "But do me a favor, mate, and stop trying to protect me by keeping me in the dark." The hint of a smile turned into the real thing as he added, "If you haven't noticed, that usually leads to one or both of us being rendered unconscious."

They laughed together, the sort of laugh that Sherlock never shared with anyone who wasn't John.

Sighing impatiently, Mycroft made his way through the rummage and to the door. "I need to send a few owls. I'll be back in fifteen, and then you _will_ take me to retrieve the memories." He didn't wait for a response but simply stepped out and clicked the door closed behind him.

John stood and helped Sherlock slowly to his feet. "So," he said awkwardly. "You and Irene."

"Inconsequential," Sherlock said quickly. "She was acting on Moriarty's orders." Before John could barrage him with pity, he asked, "And how're things with you and...whichever girl you're seeing now?"

"Jeanette," John laughed. "We broke up. Apparently she was tired of me writing to her about you." To Sherlock's confused expression, he explained, "You've been so distant lately...I had to talk to somebody."

"Ah." Sherlock rubbed at his hair sheepishly. "I _am_ sorry, John. I presume this is the worst birthday you've had in quite some time."

John nodded, grinning. "Possibly the worst ever."

"Then let me make it up to you. After we're done with Mycroft, let's get dinner. I know a place..." He trailed off, uncomfortably aware of how socially stunted he was. "That is, if you're not still angry with me."

"I'm pretty much perpetually angry with you," John said, shaking his head and smiling. "You're the most infuriating person I've ever met. I'll still have dinner with you, though."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched upwards. "Good."

"But," John added, poking Sherlock in the arm, "you're paying. And you're singing 'Happy Birthday' to me."

"Absolutely not," Sherlock scoffed. Didn't stop him from envisioning the notes on his violin, though.

X

"I talked to Arcadia this morning in the common room," John said around a mouthful of beans. It was the morning before Christmas break, and Sherlock was spending it scanning the Prophet for signs of Moriarty.

"Mm," Sherlock responded absently. He took a sip of coffee.

"She said she's making great progress with that potion you gave her to work on." John dragged a piece of toast across his plate, scooping up the extra sauce. "Reckons she'll be done with it after break and ready to work on the counter-potion."

Sherlock licked his finger, turned the page. "How marvelous," he drawled.

Any stroppy remark from John was cut short by the sudden approach of an owl. It swooped in front of them, dropping a postcard on Sherlock's newspaper.

"Oi!" John grumbled, waving the bird away from his food. He scowled at it, then turned his attention to the postcard. "What's that?"

"Not sure." Sherlock picked it up. The picture on the front was of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. He turned it over and immediately recognized the handwriting. Irene.

_Thinking of you, xoxo_, it said. It wasn't signed. Beneath the words was the faint outline of a red kiss-print.

Sherlock turned the card back over and looked at the bridge, his brow furrowed. Then he folded the card and tucked it into his pocket. John had long since lost interest, busy as he was picking feathers out of his meal and pulling disgusted faces. Should he tell John about the postcard?

Holding a sopping feather between his forefinger and thumbed, John looked up at Sherlock. "So? What was it?"

"Old client," Sherlock lied. He smiled at John and took another long sip from his coffee. He'd never actually promised to start telling John the truth, had he? And some things were best left in the dark.

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed this foray into Sherlock's POV! The next book in this series is 'The Hounds of the Burrow', which I'm looking forward to immensely.**


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